The Hills is Lonely (20 page)

Tea and biscuits began to circulate and the conversation ranged from such topics as the prospect of winter herring to the existence of witches; from the price of whisky to the efficacy of willow bark for cold sores; from the condition of the cattle to the miraculous traffic lights of Glasgow. It was Murdoch who regarded the latter thus, explaining carefully to his unsophisticated audience that: ‘When the lights is blue the cars can go; when they're yellow they can still go; but when they're red!' the old man's fist dropped expressively on to his knee and his voice became emphatic. ‘Why 'tis just like a tether on their wheels,' he told them, ‘and they canna' move, no not an inch!' After one glance at his spellbound audience he added knowledgeably ‘It's the electric d'you see?'

It was plain that Murdoch believed the secret of the traffic lights to be a powerful electric ray which effectively immobilised all engines in the vicinity, and it says much for Glasgow motorists that Murdoch, who had studied them intensively during the fortnight he had spent in the city, had apparently never seen a car ‘jump' the lights.

‘Have you ever seen them?' he asked me.

‘Yes,' I told him. ‘We have them in England too.'

Murdoch regarded me with a sceptical stare. ‘Is that so?' he murmured with polite disbelief.

Tea drinking was well in progress when the rampant Lachy burst into the room, followed by Euan the halfwit. Without ceremony Lachy snatched the stool from beneath Elspeth's feet, ignoring her sudden collapse as blandly as he ignored her profane remonstrance. He seated himself on the major portion of the stool and generously allowed Euan to make himself comfortable on the remaining two inches. The latter opened his mouth to begin a vituperative protest but a quelling glance from his hostess not only silenced his protestations but also appeared to paralyse the muscles of his jaws, so that he sat for the remainder of the evening staring stupidly before him, his mouth with its one front tooth gaping as rigidly and seductively as a baited mousetrap.

So far as I was concerned Lachy's arrival was inopportune, for the discussion had turned to old country cures—a subject in which I was intensely interested—and I had made mental notes of numerous, half-remembered remedies. As I have mentioned previously, Morag's mother was reputed to have possessed great skill in concocting medicines from plants, but Morag always appeared embarrassed when I tried to pump her for information. It was as though she was ashamed to confess her knowledge. Tonight, however, she was not averse to discussing the subject and I heard her prescribe sea urchins for the cure of asthma; scabious roots for jaundice; plantain leaves for poultices and plasters; clover heads for cancer, and a fantastic-sounding remedy for a soaring temperature as in the case of fevers, etc., which was to split and fry a red herring, then to tie the halves to the soles of the patient's feet. This treatment, though claimed to be efficacious, was considered to be rather drastic and was accompanied by the warning that in the case of an adult the fish should not be left on the feet for more than twenty minutes by the clock; while in the case of a child ten minutes was the maximum for safety, otherwise it might do more harm than good. I hope I may never have occasion to try out this cure; nor, for that matter, would I care to try out the recommended cure for piles, which was to ‘sit in a bucket of pneumonia every night for half an hour before going to bed'.

The manner of Lachy's entrance had thrown everyone into a state of expectancy and though I attempted several times to bring the conversation back to cures my efforts were unavailing.

‘D'you know who I've just seen?' the newcomer demanded.

Everyone professed ignorance.

‘I saw Hamish MacAlistair Oulliam,' announced Lachy dramatically.

His statement was greeted with cries of ‘Oh, my, my!' and ‘Surely not after all this time?' and ‘Whoever was expectin' to see him again indeed?'

‘Well, he's home again this night, true as I'm here,' affirmed Lachy. There were even more exclamations and in the middle of them he turned to me.

‘You never knew Hamish MacAlistair Oulliam, did you, Miss Peckwitt?' he asked, and then continued: ‘No, you couldn't have.'

I had to admit that I had never heard of Hamish MacAlistair Oulliam.

‘Well I'm tellin' you, Miss Peckwitt,' he explained solemnly, ‘'tis three years now since that fellow—and he was only eighteen or thereabouts at the time—he jumped on a sheep and away he went and not a soul has seen breath, nor line, nor trace, nor shape of him from then until he walked into his own house tonight.'

As I have said, the talk during the evening had touched upon various aspects of the supernatural; I had listened to the most impressive tales of present-day fairies, tales which would be vouched for by witnesses still alive and of impeccable character. As a result I was in a particularly receptive mood, but even so the existence of an enchanted sheep which could carry away a man was too much for my prosaic mind. Covertly I studied the circle of intent faces, watching for the slightest quirk of the lips or glint in the eye to confirm my suspicion that the story was a deliberate attempt at pulling my often too-susceptible leg. I could, however, discern nothing in their expressions save profound interest.

‘I don't believe a word of it,' I said decisively.

My words brought a chorus of indignant and sorrowful rebukes from the company.

‘Why, there's plenty knows the truth of it,' they told me.

‘Indeed,' someone insisted, ‘he'll like as not be tellin' you the truth of it for himself soon enough.'

Their earnest asseverations were obviously made in the sincere belief that the sheep had indeed run away with the man, but try as I would my faltering imagination boggled, first at the idea of any sheep being able to carry on its back even the smallest of men, and then at the possibility that, even in such a wild part of the country, the steed and its rider could disappear completely for three years. It was a tale for the superstitious Gael or an infants' school; not for a town-bred Englishwoman.

‘Sheep don't do that,' I insisted. ‘It's not possible.'

‘They don't?' Murdoch enquired haughtily. ‘I'm tellin' you. Miss Peckwitt, if the sheep is carryin' a mixed cargo she might be away for even five years. It all depends on the cargo and the Company.'

The ensuing silence was broken by a snatch of song. So long as the Gaels stick to their own melodies I like to hear their singing, there being a primitive and unrestrained passion in their music which perfectly expresses the spirit of the wild hills and lonely glens of their land, and completely suits the curious vibrancy of their untrained voices. Listening sometimes I had the vague feeling that the beat of the tom-toms was missing, so strangely reminiscent are some of their songs of those of native tribes.

Adam the gamekeeper was considered to be Bruach's best male singer and it was he who started now, nodding the beat of the music to himself as he sang, and interspersing each verse with a colossal guttural sniff which twisted his nose like the thong of a whip, and jerked his head up from his chest like a marionette on a string. Everyone joined in the choruses and I could not help noticing that the mannerisms and facial expressions of all the singers were almost identical.

It was the custom for every person present at the ceilidh to be asked to sing, and it was equally the custom for everyone to deny that he or she could sing. Giggle and Sniggle were addressed when Adam had finished.

‘Come on, girls, what about a song from you?'

Giggle and Sniggle hung their heads shyly and of course giggled and sniggled in unison. They undoubtedly would have provided a long-drawn-out duet of giggling and sniggling had there been room enough on the chair for them both to breathe out at the same time. Persuasion having proved fruitless in their case, Elspeth was next entreated.

‘Come now, you Elspeth, you're a good singer.'

Elspeth too hung her head and giggled. ‘I can no sing,' she disclaimed unenthusiastically.

‘You can so.'

‘Ach, I can no.'

‘Indeed you can so.'

Thus the cajolery and contradiction continued and between each unconvincing denial Elspeth surreptitiously but very determinedly cleared her throat in preparation for the song she had every intention of singing throughout every one of its fifteen verses.

As the night wore on the singing and the gossiping became more sporadic until there was only the voice of Anna Vic, who for the greater part of the evening had been regaling our patient hostess with shrilly despairing confidences regarding the shortcomings of the fat woman's youngest son. Her affronted voice pierced a temporary silence.

‘Supposin' I stand on my head he won't do it for me,' she complained. There was the echo of a sardonic laugh from Lachy.

‘Supposin' you stand on your head, nobody would notice the difference. You're the same shape either way up'

His quip was received with a roar of laughter from the assembled company and the fat woman looked momentarily uncomfortable. The shepherd, still grinning widely, got up to go. He was tired, he told us, after having had such a heavy day, ‘there'd been that many docks chasin' ships all over the hills'. He directed a meaning glance at Murdoch who was reputed to own the worst sheep-worrying dog in the district, but, affecting to be deaf, the old man continued to stare steadily, at the fire.

‘The merry dancers are puttin' on a good show tonight,' called Alistair as he went out; ‘it means a change in the weather one way or another.'

Morag and I decided that it was time we also should be making a move, and Johnny, Lachy, Angus, Anna Vic and Murdoch, though loth to break up the ceilidh, made up their minds to come with us. The night was still clear and the slightly toothachy moon sailed serenely along through a froth of white cloud. From behind the hills rose the flickering green-gold cone of the Northern Lights, its apex directly above our heads.

‘Aye, aye, a change in the weather right enough,' confirmed Murdoch as he minced along in front of us, holding his pipe to his mouth in the manner of a small child blowing bubbles. We three women followed, arms linked together, and behind us came Johnny, Lachy and Angus. The talk eddied from one to another and the background to our conversation was the sucking rasp of the breakers on the shingle and the infrequent cry of some night-flying bird. And then we became aware of another sound: a weird, rhythmic, burring wail which none of us could identify.

‘Good God! Whatever's that?' burst out Anna Vic apprehensively.

After pausing to listen we decided that the noise was coming from somewhere along a stretch of road now under repair. The men turned their steps inquisitively in that direction and we followed, keeping close to their heels, dropping our voices to whispers. The noise grew gradually more distinct, and was now punctuated by an eerie, choking moan. Anna Vic clutched at my arm, but whether it was for her own comfort or mine I could not tell. If it was the former she was likely to be disillusioned, for after the evening's ghost stories my nerves were not exactly steady. After walking for some distance the men halted and we were at once relieved and surprised to hear Murdoch's asthmatic chuckle. Following the direction of his pointing finger, we saw, a short way in front of us, a dark mass which we soon identified as the small hut where the ‘gaffer' of the roadmen lived. It was from the hut that the strange noise was coming.

‘My, but that man can snore,' declared Johnny with grudging admiration.

Anna Vic's tightly held breath escaped in a thankful sigh and she slackened her hold on my arm.

‘He must be ill,' I said.

‘Not him,' replied Murdoch sagely. ‘It's whisky that makes him snore like that, not sickness.'

‘How that man can drink!' Angus observed in accents of awed humility.

‘You should have seen him on Friday,' said Lachy. ‘He was that drunk it took four of us to get him over from the bus to his hut. And when we got him inside, Johnny here lights the Primus to make him some tea to try would it sober him up. There was no watter, so we had to take a pail and go to the burn and by God! when we got back we found the old bodach sittin' on top of the lighted Primus itself.'

‘Indeed it was lucky for him he'd sat in a few bogs on the way home,' said Johnny, taking up the story, ‘or he'd have been in a worse mess than he was.'

‘Was he burned bad?' demanded Murdoch.

‘Burned? Him?' asked Lachy incredulously. ‘Why, when we pulled him off the stove he said he must have been sittin' in a patch of thistles some time. Thistles!' went on Lachy. ‘Can you believe it? And the bottom burned out of his pants and his backside as red as a cock's comb in spring. I'm tellin' you that fellow has a skin like the sole of a tackety hill-boot.'

Lachy's enthusiastic description of the gaffer's misadventure lasted while we retraced our steps to the road.

‘My, but he's a character that one,' remarked Murdoch. ‘And I've never in my life seen a man that's wilder in his drink.' he added respectfully.

‘He doesn't have to get drunk to get wild,' interpolated Johnny. ‘He wanted to smash my face in the other day because I told him the Government would lose the next election.'

‘Aye, aye, he's a staunch Tory,' averred Murdoch.

‘And so you are yourself for that matter,' muttered Johnny sulkily.

‘And why shouldn't I be?' demanded Murdoch with some heat. ‘People that's lived as long as I have is always Tory. You grow in sense as you grow in years you know.'

Johnny retaliated with some incoherent remark reflecting upon the senility of the Tory party in general and the comparative youthfulness of Socialism.

‘Socialism! Why, I'd sooner have rheumatism than Socialism. It's easier to c-cure,' stuttered Murdoch, who had never felt the slightest twinge of either malady. ‘You young people,' he went on, ‘shouldn't be allowed to have a vote at all, and then Socialism would never have come to fret us in our old age. You have no sense at all,' he finished disparagingly.